


Intermission (Draw Those Black & Blue Curtains)

by lovesrogue36



Series: Fractures [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Banter, F/M, Fights, Gambling, New Vegas, Outdoor Sex, Season 2 Speculation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:32:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie and Bass argue after he almost loses a fight in the New Vegas ring. | Companion piece to 'Fractures Left Alone to Heal' but can stand alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermission (Draw Those Black & Blue Curtains)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Revolution nor am I associated with any of its cast or crew.
> 
> A/N: So, there were a lot of requests for a continuation of my story 'Fractures Left Alone to Heal' but because that story is based on speculation for the second half of season 2 which is, of course, about to be Jossed, I decided I'd fill in with a few companion pieces instead. This is based on Charlie's references to previous incidents during their stay in New Vegas, waiting for Miles to join them.

Charlie lingered on the fringes of a crowd filled with nomads, barely-dressed hookers and runaway soldiers. She hooked her thumbs in her belt loops, feeling naked without a crossbow strapped to her back as she watched snippets of the fight playing out in the center ring. New Vegas didn’t used to be a city; when the power went out, it was a traveling carnival on a stop in Oklahoma. Unlike most people, carnies knew how to make a life out of nothing and, to be honest, their living didn’t change that much.

For a few years, they hunkered down and kept to themselves but in time, even the displaced and out-of-luck wanted something to take their mind off things. No one had made it as far as Vegas in years so they changed their name, added some fighters, some hookers, some craps tables, and started over.

Something brushed her arm and she turned to it, sharp, focused, only to find the bookie standing there with an expectant look on his face.

“Hey, Cherie.”

She swallowed a groan at the alias, running fingers through her hair. “Lou.”

“Jimmy’s up next.”

Charlie rubbed her arms, crossed over her chest, though it wasn’t cold. Sweat stung her nostrils and she glanced away. “Yeah I know.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a front row seat?” he suggested, gesturing to the front of the crowd.

Turning a blank stare on him, she wondered why she was still talking to the little rat. “There are no seats, Lou.” God, Monroe was right: sometimes she sounded just like her mother.

He rolled his eyes, shrugging in exasperation. “Suit yourself. It’s not like it puts me out any; I make more money when the girls think he’s single.”

“He _is_ single-” she tried quickly, harshly, to protest but he was already pushing his way through the crowd. Charlie sighed, closing her eyes for a fraction of a second as she listened to the _thwack-thwack-thunk_ of the fight, then the roar of cheers and boos and finally the clink of coin swapping between hands.

The announcer, a tall tattooed man with an already booming voice, spoke into a bullhorn, introducing Jimmy King, _the returning champ, the man with the iron fists-_ She stopped listening at that part, rolling her eyes. In spite of herself, though, she wormed her way to the front of the crowd so that when he walked out she was standing there with her hip cocked, right in front of him. He balled his hands into tense, battle-ready fists, eyes locked with hers even as he made the rounds, played to the crowd. God, it made her sick to watch him do that: turn them, all of them, men, women, whatever, into putty in his hands.

Charlie brushed her hair out of her face, folding her arms. She wasn’t sure why she kept coming to these things. He had a fight almost every day and it wasn’t like it was a big surprise when he won. The only time he’d been knocked out, she and Lou had dragged him back to his trailer and doused him with whatever pungent alcohol had been residing in the Everclear bottle.

He had sputtered and cursed at them, but after Lou left, and no way in hell would she ever admit this to a living soul, she fussed over his cuts and bruises. She made him swear he’d never lose another fight ‘cause that would be the one and only time she was going to act like such a Florence frickin’ Nightingale.

In the present, Charlie watched him size up his opponent, a bulky meathead with a scar on his cheek and an unfortunate habit for grabbing her ass. Monroe didn’t like him much; not that he’d ever pulled his punches for somebody he did like. His cuts and parries were brutal but always seemed more intentional than Miles’ technique. Her uncle had taught her to be a guerilla, how to fight to survive. Monroe made it a show. Well, she supposed, that’s exactly what it was.

Cheers filled her ears and Charlie dragged her thoughts back to the fight. Monroe had the guy on the ropes, or at least that’s what Lou had said the last time he beat somebody down so fast though she wasn’t sure what it meant. One of the girls at her elbows giggled, winking at him as his eyes darted in Charlie’s direction. Charlie rolled her eyes, curling her fingers so just the middle one tapped against her arm.

He grinned, still staring over his shoulder at her as Meathead clawed at him, Monroe’s arm hooked around his neck. He got cocky though and before he could knock the guy’s lights out, he’d squirmed out of Monroe’s grip and landed a solid punch to his kidney.

Charlie lurched forward out of instinct, cussing under her breath. “Shit, god- _idiot._ ”

A girl in ragged sequins grabbed her shoulder, holding her back. “He your boyfriend, honey?”

She flashed an insincere smile, keeping an eye on Monroe’s progress in the ring ( _the stupid cocky asshole_.) “So he tells me.”

The girls sighed and pandered and murmured things like, “Oh, if I had a man like that…”

Charlie pressed her lips together to keep from gagging. They misinterpreted it as concern (well, maybe she was a little concerned, but not like _that_ , not like she _cared_.)

“Don’t worry, doll. Jimmy’s got the best record in New Vegas. He’ll turn it around in a minute,” they reassured her, patting her shoulder and nodding sagely over her head.

“Trust me, I know. He’s got 29 goddamn lives,” Charlie muttered, wrenching away and marching out of the tent, her lungs filled with cheap cigarette smoke and even cheaper perfume. She stood there by the flap tied half-open, chewing on her lip and her fingernails, until Meathead was slumped on the dirt floor and Monroe had his hands raised over his head, still undefeated and all that bullshit. He stumbled outside, hands closing around her shoulders and drawing her into him.

Charlie shoved him off, his hand wrapping tight around her wrist before she could slap him. “You ass, you _idiot!_ You could have gotten killed in there ‘cause you weren’t paying _attention!_ What the hell is-” He ducked his head, nipping at her pulse point, free hand on her hip. “-wrong with- you-”

“You’re fuckin’ distracting,” he mumbled, swiping his tongue over her throat.

She groaned, tearing herself away. “Screw off, _Jimmy_.”

“Hey, come on.” Monroe sighed, running fingers through his hair. “I won, didn’t I?”

“Barely!”

He reached for her, crowding her back against an old generator. Charlie glared at him, hand flat on his chest and knee between his. “What’s gonna happen when Miles gets here, huh, and you’re dead and we’re screwed and the world goes to hell ‘cause you couldn’t keep your eye on the ball?”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re the master of overreaction?” he growled, hooking his fingers in her belt and yanking her into him. “Christ, Charlotte.”

Her hands curled in his unbuttoned shirt, glare deepening so her eyes tightened and her lips twisted. “Maybe I’m just worried about you, baby.”

Monroe grunted, nudging her knees open. “The day that’s true is the day Miles is all sunshine to find his two favorite people have been getting their rocks off together.”

She couldn’t help chuckling against him, tongue sweeping along his, familiar. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, bare, scarred skin sliding under her palms, his bruises hers to keep and record. He tangled fingers in her hair, thumb stroking against her jaw, and she pulled him a little tighter with her legs around his.

They stood there in the yellow glow of smoke and lantern-light, her body small and warm, crushed up against him. Dealers changing shift and hookers starting their night streamed past them but Charlie couldn’t care less, not until his fingers crept beneath her jeans, prying through cloth and curls for the sensitive skin that had been growing wet since he walked into the ring.

Pulling away just far enough, Charlie hissed into his mouth, “I may have very little dignity left but I’m still not gonna do this right out here in the open.”

She expected him to grumble, to protest, but instead he only grabbed her hand and dragged her off the defunct generator. Charlie stumbled after him, ducking as he yanked her between two trailers where the light was dim and shadowy and laundry was strung low over their heads. He pushed her down, tripping her just for good measure and she swore, jerking him to his knees with a hand fisted in his jeans.

Monroe laughed into the curve of her breast where he landed, ripping the shirt down and cupping her through thin cotton.

Groaning, Charlie reached between them to tug his pants open. “Really, Bass, in the dirt?”

“Hey, it’s private enough for me.” It took them a few moments of fumbling to get naked enough, sniping at each other in the meantime.

“Exhibitionist.”

“Prude.”

He pushed her panties aside, hitching her hip up and sliding inside, one smooth motion like he was still in the ring. Charlie clutched at him, nails in his skin, and he winced as she dug into a bruised muscle. “ _Jesus_ , Bass,” she gasped, feeling him stretch her body even though they’d done this three times in the last week. Every time she thought she’d feel repulsed, or at least _used_ to it, but instead it was like he was searing her, filling up all the places in her that he’d left empty, on purpose, by accident, by some cruel fate.

She sighed in resignation, rocking her hips against him. “Ch-Charlotte-” Monroe panted into her shoulder, one hand braced in the dirt beside her and the other clawing at her knee.

Moaning, part pain and mostly hot, liquid pleasure, Charlie ground into him, back arching up off the ground. “There’s a- _rock_ ,” she mumbled, the point digging into her ass but it didn’t matter; they were too far into it, his thrusts awkward and uncalculated. She bit at his lip, teeth and tongue and short fingernails.

Monroe pulled out of her with a reluctant groan and she fisted him in one hand with hard, punishing strokes. He came between her legs, collapsing against dirt and smooth, young skin. “Don’t want to know how you got so good at that.”

She nudged him with her knee, smacking his shoulder. “There’s something you’re good at too.”

“Always in such a hurry.” He lifted his head, teeth scraping over her hip and pushed two graceful, if filthy, fingers inside her. His fingertips hooked back and he dug his thumb in, her face twisting with pleasure.

She babbled her approval, hands in his hair and his shirt, until he shoved his tongue in her mouth. Muscles clenching and tightening, Charlie dragged him as close as she could with her legs. She sucked eagerly on his tongue as she came around impatiently tapping fingers, always more responsive towards the end. They lay there in the relative silence of their own heaving breath and shuffling feet, just beyond the edge of the trailers, spent and a bit obscene but temporarily very content.

Finally shoving several dangling bras out of her face, Charlie rolled into him, his arms winding around her. “You think you could control your libido _into_ the trailer next time?”

“You get just as worked up as I do. Admit it, you like to watch me fight.”

Resting her hand on his chest, fingers sliding just beneath the edge of his shirt, she frowned slightly. “I don’t like to watch you get beat up.”

“I’m touched,” Monroe said with more than a touch of dry sarcasm.

She lifted her head with a glare, even as her lips twitched. “No, you asshole, I just don’t like anybody else to have the privilege.”

Glancing down at their debauched state of undress, he kissed her forehead. “You can beat me up anytime, Charlotte.”

The comfortable, inane banter always made her feel traitorous and dirty. No doubt, in a few minutes, she would push him away, tell him it couldn’t happen anymore. But tomorrow or the day after that or next week, she’d be back here after a fight with Sebastian Monroe’s fingers inside her and his mouth on hers and she’d feel sick about it, but not stop it.

Traitorous, dirty, yes. But Charlie had given up on guilt a long time ago.

 


End file.
